


Restoration

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Disabled Character, Caretaking, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, John Lives, Love, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-01 22:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10202483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: In which Harold and John have always been ride-or-die, the fact that Harold's made it so that two of their aliases have been married for years comes in handy and John learns how to live in a post-Samaritan world.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts).



Harold’s hands were trembling. When John managed to open his eyes, Harold was still holding onto his hands and tears sliding down his face. They were still on the rooftop.

“I could not let you die alone,” Harold said, his voice barely above a whisper. His voice was almost swallowed up by the sound of sirens and John’s own heartbeat in his ears.   
He could not see any snipers, only the gun beside Harold and the blood splatter on his collar. With Harold so close, John could almost smell the lingering aftershave, tea and the barest hint of old books. For a split second John felt the world shift, and they were back at the Library. He could almost hear the computer equipment humming, feel the familiar stillness of all libraries and see a world where, perhaps, their relationship had managed to move in into something more than lingering touches and devotion. 

John swallowed, his breath hitching as the pain took over his senses. He was slumped against the wall, losing more blood by the second.

Harold was still here, and John could see the blood seeping through his shirt. It wasn’t John’s blood, some part of John’s brain told him. Harold wasn’t moving like he should if he wasn’t also bleeding. When their eyes met, John could see that Harold’s smile was watery. Their fingers interlaced. They had started a partnership together, it was only fitting that they would end it together. 

_So, you are going to die with me instead?_

John could not help thinking of another rooftop, a memory that almost felt like it belonged to another world and Harold’s trembling fingers on the buttons. He had the same look in his eyes then as he did now. The one that said that he’d walk through hell if it meant staying with John.

That was not how it was supposed to go. Knights were meant to defend their kings until their hearts gave out. Until the very end of their lives and using every trick and skill to do so. Dying for them had always been a part of the deal, a foundation stone in how their relationship functioned. It was a part of the deal.

Kings were not supposed to wish to die on the battlefield beside their knights…

But here Harold was, kneeling on the rooftop as the chopper landed some way away and people ran towards them with some sort of equipment. He could feel Harold’s heart beating frantically and the small sounds he was making as his thumb stroked John’s palm.  
“I’m right here with you,” Harold said, his smile wobbly and unshed tears shone in his eyes.

The ground shook beneath them both and John closed his eyes as Harold held him in his arms, everything fading.

 

John woke up in a pool of sunshine and surrounded by the best medical equipment in the world. He also woke up to the sight of a pair of glasses on his nightstand. The air smelled like disinfectant and bad coffee. A hospital, then.

“Harold?” John asked, a force of habit honed through too many years of waking up on the concrete and on dirty apartment floors after being knocked out. He tried to move his hand to his earpiece, but the familiar weight wasn’t there. “Are you there?”  
Then there was the distinct sound of uneven footsteps and a cane on the floor, and John felt his chest ache with relief so stark that for a moment he wasn’t sure if he was breathing at all. Harold made a small sound that could have been a sob.  
John tried to move towards Harold, distantly aware that a very powerful cocktail of drugs was coursing through his veins. His muscles refused to obey him, only his fingers twitching.

“Always, Mister Reese,” Harold said, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. John closed his eyes when he felt Harold’s fingers brush his elbow as he adjusted the warm blanket so that it would cover John up to his chin. Minutes might have passed, or hours. Even days. Time barely had any meaning as John flitted in and out of consciousness while Harold sat beside him, talking to the doctors and typing on laptop. He just got glimpses of Harold when he woke, most of the time he couldn’t move his head so that he only saw the color of Harold’s waistcoat or felt his hand on his wrist. John was aware that Harold had explained how they’d been rescued, but the information he’d managed to retain was flimsy at best.

On what might have been the third day, John was more coherent. The doctors and nurses had stated talking to him, telling him about the innumerable surgeries he’d had and years of physical therapy he would have to endure. Harold wrote everything down and asked a heap of questions, and would hand the doctors the phone so that they would also explain things to Shaw, if she wasn’t there with them. Harold had described her as John’s sister, and none of the doctors had made any comment so John suspected that Harold had both hacked their files and established a new identity for both of them. 

“How did you manage to convince them to let you in?” John asked when the nurses had moved Fusco’s Get Well card aside for the water jug. Shaw had just left, leaving only the scent of candy wrappers and gunpowder behind.

“I told them you were my husband,” Harold said in a matter-of-fact tone, ducking his head as if he was pleased with his own ingenuity. “Such an elegant solution. Allows me to have complete access to all sorts of information, they accept the fact that I stay with you for long periods of time…”

John’s gaze moved to Harold’s hand, where there was indeed a gold wedding ring.

“How long have you had that ready?” John said, sinking deeper into his pillow. There was another matching ring on the nightstand, half-hidden behind a flower vase. 

“I got them years ago, when we had been working together for a few months,” Harold explained, sounding nostalgic. Life had been simpler when it had been just two of them against the world, running around New York City saving Numbers and getting to know each other. “At the time, I thought it would be a good solution for us if we’d have to explain our relationship to someone or go undercover. In fact, we’ve been married for years.”

“Oh,” John said, feeling as if his lungs had suddenly emptied of all air. “We never used those aliases before.”

“No,” Harold said, “but having two fully-realized aliases at hand was very useful when we’re still adjusting to a world without Samaritan. And it seems to have worked out very well.”

“Yes,” John said, aware that Harold was looking at him with a furrowed brow, as if considering backing down on this. The ring gleamed on his finger and John couldn’t help but stare at it. “It’s a good solution.”

“I’ll put mine on when they’ve taken the cast off,” John managed. Harold nodded with a fond smile, as if this was just a regular day at the office. Of course, in a way, it was. 

John didn’t take the ring off when he was finally discharged from the hospital. Harold didn’t say anything about it, but kept his on as well. Shaw just looked at the rings and threw edible confetti in the air. Most of it ended up on the floor and in Bear’s mouth. Sometimes she would elbow John and grin at him when she caught him staring at Harold setting up his systems in the Library. Somehow, it was just easier to keep it on. The added weight on his finger became something that signified this new life after Samaritan.

“The Machine still has room for antiques?” John had asked one evening as Harold sat down beside him on the couch in one of Harold’s safe houses. Harold had placed his teacup carefully on the coffee table, turning to face John. The Library was clean and dusted and almost operational by now as a base. It was filled with computer equipment and John had stocked the kitchen with enough canned peaches, frozen food and coffee to last them at least two weeks. Harold had sneaked in a new bed for Bear among all the servers, tea and guns. John suspected that Shaw had her own room full of guns and explosives.

“Certainly,” Harold has said with a smile. “It wouldn’t be here without them.”

“Well, the same goes for both of us,” John said, “I don’t think I would have made it from that rooftop without your help. And you were the one who built the first Machine.”

“You always had a problem with the idea of being the contingency plan,” Harold said, turning the ring on his finger.  
“I have my reasons,” John said, trying to tear himself away from the movement of Harold’s fingers and the way he leaned against John’s shoulders.

It was good to be back where they started, even though he had to use the elevator now because of the wheelchair. There was something peaceful about being able to browse the stacks and tape photos to the new glass board. It was familiar. Shaw would wheel him around the city when they went on missions on foot now, Bear walking beside her and watching out for danger. Sometimes Harold came with them, prattling off all sorts of information and smiling. Sometimes John wondered what a strangle little family they made, hurrying down the street.

John eventually handed over his status as the Primary Asset to Shaw, focusing on training new recruits that the Machine had suggested and the sort of stake-outs and undercover operations that were way over their heads. Harold reasoned that it was important to get new people, as they would not be able to go into the field forever and must one day retire.

It was easy to let Harold into his old apartment, easy to ask him to stay the night to keep away the nightmares. It was easy to let him back into his life, to smooth out the edges until they fit back together just as seamlessly as before. Eventually, Harold moved the key pieces of his wardrobe into one of John’s closets, since he was sleeping beside John every night anyway. And John became used to waking up next to Harold, their hands linked together.

They became, once again, used to a shared life. 

They never took their rings off.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been something I've been working on for months, on and off.


End file.
